


Lynchpin

by LectorEl



Series: Lynchpin [1]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: (and sex), Gen, I'm not kidding about the friendship thing, Z and Owens death basically killed me, and try to seduce Tim over to the dark side with the power of FRIENDSHIP, so now I write fix-it fic where they don't die, the assassins trio were my favorite characters in Red Robin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 11:15:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/638306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LectorEl/pseuds/LectorEl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All it takes is a reaction a split-second quicker, and suddenly, everything changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shift

Tim’s not sure what tipped him off. A shadow in the corner of his eye a split second before they struck, the sound of a pebble falling, maybe even the unmistakable smell of the human body. Tim had never been like Dick, or Jason. He had never, possibly would never have strength, height, or weight on a serious attacker. He’d learned to depend on speed, skill, and complete awareness of his surroundings.

Whatever it was, it was just enough to trigger instincts honed by years of being the lesser threat. Tim shoved Z aside, twisted, and grabbed the attacker’s arm. A jerk, a shove, and the crack of bone.

Then there was a dead body on the ground, neck twisted unnaturally. Tim stared weakly. He’d.

“Did you find what you were looking for, Timothy?” Tim raised his hand to the earpiece, but didn’t answer. “Timothy?”

Z plucked the earpiece out of Tim’s ear. “Tim…just killed someone defending us, master.” Z paused, listening, and in the delay, Owens of all people took off his jacket and wrapped it around Tim’s shoulders. He put his arm around Tim’s shoulders and gently but firmly guided him over to the ATV. Pru kicked over the dead body, searching it in quick, jerky motions. Tim blinked, and Z was fitting the earpiece back over Tim’s right ear.

“Breath, Timothy,” Ra’s commanded. Tim nodded, sucking in air. He could do that. Pru jerked open the ATV door and turned up the heat, before wrestling Tim into a sideways hug. Owens sat down on his other side, pressing his shoulder into Tim’s.

“First kills?” Pru said, cocking an eyebrow, “ _Always_ suck. Puked my guts up my first time. Was stuck in the middle of fucking nowhere, too, so I smelled like bad clam chowder for the rest of the goddamn week too.”

Z sighed. “Thank you, Prudence, for that unnecessarily detailed account of your first. I’m sure Tim appreciates it.”

Tim laughed. “At least I didn’t do that.” He ran his hand through his hair and covered his face. “God, Bruce is never going to forgive me when he finds out.”

“He need not know, Timothy,” Ra’s said, voice steady in Tim’s ear.

“He’d figure it out.” Tim managed a lopsided smile at the corner of the ATV where he was sure the surveillance camera was. “World’s greatest detective, remember?”

Ra’s chuckled. “Only you, your team, and myself know of this incident. It need not even be recorded anywhere that you struck the killing blow.”

Some lonely, desperate part of him warmed at Pru, Z, and Owens being described as ‘his team.’ It had been awhile since he’d had people he could rely on.

“Getting credit for that kill would be sweet,” Owens put in. Pru bent around Tim to scowl at Owens.

“Hey! Why do you get the credit? I totally could of done it!” She jabbed Owens in the shoulder, leaning on Tim in the process.

“True, everyone gets lucky sometimes,” Z said in a mild tone. Pru flopped back in her seat and pouted.

“None of you bastards appreciate me. I’m defecting to Tim.” She grinned at him. “He likes me best anyway.” Tim knew what they were doing. Distracting him, keeping him from falling into shock, cushioning the metaphoric blow. He appreciated it.

Tim raised his hands, warding them off. “Switzerland. I’m Switzerland, don’t ask me to take a side.”

Z looked at him from the driver’s seat and gave him an amused nod. “If you say so, Tim. We’re heading to a league safehouse, unless you have any objections?”

Tim shook his head. “I’m in your hands.”

Pru smirked and leered. “Not yet you aren’t.”

“Pru.” Owens gave her a look. “No hitting on the guy covered in blood. That’s disturbing.” He shuddered theatrically. Pru pulled a face.

“Says the guy who once strangled somebody with their own entrails,” Pru shot back.

“Can we _not_ talk about entrails?” Tim asked.

Owens shrugged. “Sure. We can talk about hearts, or livers, or kidneys…”

Tim whacked him on the shoulder. “Shut up. Please.”

Owens snickered and nudged Tim’s shoulder companionably. Pru and Owens continued to bicker cheerfully, with Z occasionally interjecting. Tim closed his eyes, and let the gentle bounce of the ATV over desert sand lull him into a drifting, half-aware state.

He felt the ATV pull to a halt, and one of his companions lift him out of the car. They tucked his head against their shoulder and carried him up a step, through a door, and into a small, dark room. He was laid down on a soft surface, and a blanket draped over him. Tim sighed and buried his head in the pillow. The sharp prick of a needle barely penetrated.

When he woke up, his mouth was dry, his head was pounding, and Z was sitting at his bedside, reading a heavy, hardcover book. When Tim cracked open his eyes, Z closed the book and set it aside.

“Here,” he said, and passed Tim a glass of water. Tim took it gratefully.

“Who drugged me?” Tim asked, when he finished the glass.

Z gave him an apologetic look. “That would be me. Standard procedure.”   

“Standard procedure for _what_ , exactly?” Tim asked skeptically.

“Unexpected first kills. A league trainee is supposed to have several months of psychological preparation beforehand,” Z said. “If it happens otherwise, there are…guidelines to minimizing the fallout.”

“That is the most disturbing thing I’ve ever heard.” Tim said, voice flat. “And I’ve been to Arkham.” Low laughter rang out. Tim looked up, to see Ra’s standing in the doorway, smiling.

“Would you prefer there were not guidelines, Timothy?” Ra’s asked.

“I’d prefer you weren’t corrupting people, Ra’s.” Tim tried to stand, leaning onto Z when he stumbled. Z wrapped an arm around his waist and helped him to a chair at a small table. All the while, Ra’s watching, with a disturbingly approving, almost parental look. Ra’s sat down across from him, Z between them.

“To the subject at hand,” Ra’s said. “What shall we do about your kill?”

Tim flinched. “I tell Bruce. And then deal with being fired.”

Z frowned and cupped Tim’s shoulder. “That isn’t right. Even within the law, self-defense is not a crime.”

“Sadly, the detective is distastefully firm on the issue,” Ra’s said. Tim stayed silent, looking down at the table. Z reached over and took Tim hand.

Ra’s tapped the table, waiting until Tim met his eyes. “The lives of three of my own were saved by your action. I will not allow it to be the end of your own.”

“We take care of our own.” Z squeezed his hand. “Just let us fix this for you.”

Tim looked, from Ra’s’ approving expression, to Z’s solemn gaze. _‘Your team.’ ‘Our own.’ ‘We.’_ Things Tim hadn't felt in far too long.

“Alright,” Tim nodded at last. “Make it disappear.”


	2. Trade-Offs

Tim glanced around the room curiously, noticing the looks of approval and respect Z was getting. Owens nudged him.

“That’s because they think Z took down the assassin from the Council.” Owens said. He tugged at a stray bang and grinned at Tim. “So really, that all should be aimed to you.”

Tim slunk down in his folding chair. “Remind me to get Z something nice.”

The meeting started soon after. Tim’s surprised to find that he’s angry. Angry that the Council is killing League members. People who had teams, partners. He can pick them out of the crowd, the ones who were left behind. Breath catching in their throats, eyes over-bright with held back tears, grief flashing across faces they try so desperately to hold straight.

Z. Owens. Pru. They all would’ve died if Tim hadn’t interfered. He’d smiled more with them that he had an entire month leading up to his departure. They would have died. When he’s asked, he knows what his answer is.

“I’ll need access your databanks. We’re taking the Council down.”

***

The plan was not one Tim liked. But it was efficient, and ultimately, put his team in less danger than the alternative.

They played bait. They had have a dozen ninja waiting in the wings, but ultimately, it’s up to the four of them to survive the initial strike. Pru and him at one location, Z and at Owens another.

Tim insisted on teaching his team how to use jump lines, and equipping all of them with his spares. If they’re going to be playing on rooftops, he wanted them to have escape lines. And to be able rescue somebody, if it came to that.

Which is why, when Tim’s line snapped, he wasn’t scared at all.

“Motherfuck!” He heard Pru scream. She took down woman she had been fighting with a single well-placed kick, and dove off the roof after him.

“Okay, fuck, fuck, fuck shit fuck damn,” Tim listened to her swear through the comm., still calm. Tim had been moving upwards vertically and also horizontally. His cape and his spread limbs increased surface mass for wind resistance. She was going straight down, streamlined.

“Let it be enough, please dear fucking god _shitdamnmotherfuck_ -” Pru’s voice rose into a howl.

She caught his hand and fired off her line, swinging them to the relative safety of the next building over.

They landed awkwardly, and collapsed together in a tangle of limbs that neither of them was eager to escape. Tim shifted enough to sit up, Pru’s shaved head still pressing up against his neck and the underside of his chin. Tim hugged her tightly, belated terror crashing in, holding tight enough that he could feel Pru’s heart racing.

“-Tim? Tim! Come in-” Tim raised a shaky hand to his comm. and saw Pru do the same.

“We’re alive,” Tim said, voice uneven. “Despite their best efforts.”

“Just really fucking freaked out,” Pru added to Z. She hooked her chin over Tim’s shoulder and just _shook_ for a bit. Tim rubbed her back.

“I think,” he told her, “We need another plan.”

Pru’s stare would frighten a basilisk. “Ya _think_? You couldn’t have thought of that _before_ you nearly became a smear on the pavement?”

“No,” Tim said, shaking his head. “Not really.” He smiled. The fall gave him an idea. It’s a vicious, nasty idea, one that could potentially get somebody killed if they’re not careful.

Tim couldn't bring himself to care. That’s twice now the Council has tried to kill his team. Tim was starting to get a bit touchy about that sort of thing.

Tim’s studied the council. One thing that stood out to him is their desire to make a show of their kills. They want an audience. People to gape in awe and terror. This translated to a reluctance to cause collateral damage until the main event.

Tim intended to take advantage of that.

***

The Ben Yehuda Market is perfect for Tim’s purposes. Large, crowded and noisy, it’s one of the places both Jews and Arabs mingle in Jerusalem. The narrow streets are filled with tiny booths selling spices, meat, produce, bread, fish, wine, sweets, even cooking equipment. Tim mentally marked down where the stalls selling the last were. As a measure of last resort, the knives there would be helpful.

“If that fish is fresh, I’m a nun,” Owens muttered to Tim under his breath, eying a nearby stall. Tim muffled his laughter with his sleeve. Ahead of them, Z bartered with a sweets seller, and then retreated back to Tim and Owens.

“Try the halvah,” Z suggested, passing Tim and Owens some of the treat. Tim felt himself relaxing, almost despite himself. He was reminded of the trips he’d gone on with Young Justice, splitting pizza in San Francisco pizza parlors, arguing over the last of the breadsticks. It was comforting.

Tim nibbled at his, trusting that Z would have warned them if it was poisoned. Sweet, but oddly gritty. Tim wasn’t sure if he liked it or not. He swallowed to clear his throat.

“So,” he said in an undertone, “Guy who’s been stalking us for the past fifteen minutes? Our target or unrelated creep?”

“Saw some spiders on him when I passed,” Z said, equally quiet. “When we get to the next open area…”

Owens nodded. He tapped his throat comm. “Pru? You get that?”

“Yeah, on it,” Pru said, voice crackling slightly over the poor quality of their earpieces. “You’ve got a small sitting area coming up. Stall for five.”

“Got it,” Owens said. He broke off from the group to vanish into the swirling crowd. Tim kept one eye on their target, who had helpfully distinguished himself from the crowd by wearing a green and gold jacket. He took a few steps after Owens and cursed when he lost sight.

“Target on the move,” Tim reported. “Taking the bait.” Tim and Z made their way over to the seating area, slowing down so their target could catch up.

“Ready?” Z asked, pausing in front of a stall to cover.

“Ready,” Pru confirmed. “Get into place.” Tim took his cue. He tapped Z on the shoulder and jerked his head toward the tables. Their target, now only a few feet away, grinned.

They trailed into the seating area. Their target lunged towards them, swinging out with a sickle. Tim fell back to avoid the blade, dragging Z with him. The people around them screamed, scattering.

“Not so bright, are you?” The man asked, deranged smile on his face. That was when Pru and Owens struck. Within a few moment, the insecticide-soaked net had him down. Tim smirked, and crouched to look at the fallen man.

“Clever enough, I think,” Tim said. He smiled nastily. “You’re going to tell us what we want to know.”

“Think you can scare me?”

Tim inclined his head towards Owens. “If you would?”

He mirrored Tim’s smile, and pulled out a sharp knife. “My pleasure.”

In the end, it took several minutes to get a name- Sac- and a confirmation of what Tim had already suspected. This was a game to the Council. Tim was nearly sick with fury. His teammates had nearly died for a sociopath’s _game_.

Tim and his team handed Sac off to the League for further interrogation. Bruce wouldn’t approve, and Tim felt slightly guilty. But not guilty enough to stop them. Not after what he heard.

The league didn’t have many standards. But they don’t tolerate people who kill just for _fun_. Sac has murdered dozens of people, horrifically, painfully. He’d helped destroy families, left teams shattered and teammates grieving. If his blood was what it takes to ease some of that grief-stricken despair?

So be it.

His team would be safer with that man six feet under.


	3. Same but Different

Tim looked over his packed bags with mild dismay. He’d arrived in Iraq with a carry-on and a small suitcase. Somehow, over the course of several months, he’d picked up an entire other duffel bag full of stuff.

Some of it- the wonderfully sharp Turkish kilij Owens had gotten him as a thank-you-for-saving-my-ass present, the leather and steel gorget Z had forced on him after he nearly took a throwing knife to the throat, the steel -toed and -heeled boots Pru had given him after declaring his uniform boots were ‘shitty damn second-rate excuses for footwear’- were perfectly excusable.

Other things- the variety of nasty not-quite-poisons he’d picked while taking on the Council, the semi-automatic handgun with rubber bullets- were likely to draw some censure.

And some- a pair of ridiculous, dangly clip-on earrings in hot pink, a binder full of unpaid parking tickets, a nurse’s uniform _(a male uniform, thankyouverymuch)_ and fake ID- were just plain embarrassing.

And none of it was easily explained by Tim Drake-Wayne _or_ Red Robin.

“You done packing yet?” Pru demanded, peering around the corner.

Tim ran his hands through his hair. “All but the lies needed to explain how I acquired all this.”

Pru flicked him on the forehead. “Stop fucking thinking like a fucking vigilante. One of the ninjas can smuggle it into Gotham for you.”

“I’m going back to being a ‘fucking vigilante,’ Pru,” Tim pointed out. “I might as well start thinking like one.”

“You’re going to be a vigilante with a bunch of overprotective as _fuck_ assassins in the shadows.” Pru patted his shoulder in fake sympathy. “Take advantage of it.”

“The fact that I’m looking forward to that makes me seriously question my moral compass.” Tim hefted the duffel bag and tossed it to Pru. “Here. Smuggle it into Gotham, would you?”

“Smart ass,” Pru mock grumbled, and started down to the Cradle’s garage. Tim waved and took the other fork down to the other living quarters.

“Takes one to know one!” Tim called after her, being as gleefully childish as he wanted. Pru flipped him off. Tim snickered, and headed for Z and Owens’ room.

“Hey, you two still here?” Tim asked as he walked in.

“No, we’re actually extremely realistic holograms,” Z deadpanned.

Owens rolled his eyes. “Of all the times for you to regrow your sense of humor…”

“Better late than never?” Tim suggested, and stole Owens mug of coffee.

“Children,” Z said, shaking his head, “ _behave_.”

Tim and Owens smiled angelically. “Of course, Z” “Yes, Z”

“But seriously,” Tim said, shaking off the act, “Will you two be okay without Pru and me? I can always put off returning to Gotham.”

“We’ll be fine. Get in, shoot the sonofabitch, get out,” Owens said. “Easy-peasy.”

Z smiled slightly. “Your father should be returning soon. You should be there.”

“Just be careful.” Tim hugged them both. “I will be _pissed_ if I have to bribe Ra’s into resurrecting you.”

“Duly noted.” Z stood, and picked up his carry sack. Owens followed him.

“See you in a month,” Owens promised. Tim nodded, and walked out with them. They split at the garage, Z and Owens heading for a heavy-duty ATV, Tim towards an impatient Pru and a pair of motorcycles.

“Do you really need to get into the country legally?” Pru whined. “Cause illegally is a hell of a lot faster and doesn’t involve us being separated for nearly a week.”

“Tim Drake-Wayne needs to at least appear traceable.” Tim sighed. “Otherwise I’d be joining you.”

“Just don’t get yourself killed,” Pru said.

“I will do my best to avoid it.” Tim kissed Pru on the bare skin above her left ear, and tugged her cross earring affectionately. “Stay safe.”

“I will if you will.” With that, Pru swung astride her motorcycle, and left the garage. Tim stayed where he was, and looked around the garage. This was the last time he’d set foot in the Cradle.

There were parts of himself that needed to be folded up and tucked away before he could wear Tim Drake-Wayne’s skin, or Red Robin’s cowl.

The boy who handed a murderer off to the league, the protege that sparred with Ra’s using all the lethal skill Shiva, Ducard, King Cobra and others had imparted, the teasing, playful teammate, all of them needed to be put away. He regretted that. He wished they were skins he could wear more often.

But his family is in Gotham, and they need him. And he loved them, even if it’s hard to remember during the bad times. He needed to go home, and be a dutiful son.

Tim sighed, and mounted his bike. It was a long ride to the airport, and he needs to be there on time. The responsibilities were starting already.

Tim cast one last wistful look at the Cradle, and kicked off.


End file.
